


under the light of the cold night sky

by atleastwestoletheshow (Silverwolf329)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 08:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwolf329/pseuds/atleastwestoletheshow
Summary: The thoughts of a King, when he is allowed to be but an Elf.(aka: Thranduil, on a night when he cannot keep the melancholy at bay.)





	under the light of the cold night sky

The forest is weary. 

The forest is weary, as are the patrols that return to the stronghold. They shuffle through the halls near-silently, but not quietly enough for me to miss the uneven tread of their boots. Their faces are stone-set, cool and calm, and do nothing to betray the stains of red that are surely growing underneath their thin cloaks.

I do not comment. My warriors seek only to assure their King that they are capable, and that the evil in our wood is not creeping towards us, closer and closer to the heart of our home. They are not foolish enough to evade medical treatment entirely; after all, they have been warriors for centuries. Some were warriors long before I was born, and still seek to convince their young King that there is a way to win this war, this endless siege against the Darkness.

I am not fooled.

I am not fooled, as surely as they are not fooled by the mask I must wear, the flinch I must suppress as the stone doors of our stronghold thud closed, entrapping us within the mountain as surely as it keeps the foul creatures of Sauron out. 

I cannot stop the hollow thud in my chest as the doors crash shut and no familiar head of gold dances in, laughing merrily, bringing some semblance of life to these cold halls. I know, in my heart of hearts, that my son does not tread under the darkening leaves of the once-proud Greenwood.

I refuse to think about where he treads now.

I wait upon my throne of dead wood for the last of the patrols to sweep in and report. Several nests of spiders have been eradicated. More have been discovered. 

It is only after the silence echoes in the throne room that I dare rise from my chair, my own footsteps treading the same sure path as my warriors’ out of the room. I trace the familiar winding paths to quarters more familiar than my own, and let out a breath only when the door clicks closed behind me.

It is only in Legolas’ quarters that I dare shed my crown and armor, for even with him gone, it seems to be the only place in this realm untouched by darkness. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear his tinkling laughter, unchanged since he was but at babe.

Legolas’ empty quarters are at once comfortingly and hauntingly familiar. In a way, it is almost as if he is simply out on patrol, and the fear singing loudly in my chest is the familiar fear of any father who must send his son to war.

But he is not. His circlet is missing from his bedside, a formality discarded in our home but often necessary at Elrond’s high council, or in the forests of Lothlorién. There is no spare quiver of arrows resting lightly on his wardrobe; I wager he will need every arrow he has ever fletched and then some before his journey ends.

The window facing the trees is closed and locked. No merry breeze dances through the room, a forest in search of its most beloved Prince.

The forests and forces of my kingdom love Legolas with an unparalleled fierceness. It is him they would follow to the ends of time, for him that they shed their life-blood, him whose orders are followed and defended without question. I am their King, but he walks among them, and it is him that they love as a leader. I am glad, for it is him that I hold above all of the treasures and greeneries of this world.

None of us may follow where he has gone. I fear that should he not return, Greenwood will fall into despair and darkness, with or without Sauron.

I certainly will.

I have but a few hours before the sun arises and I have no time to dote on my son, and I am once again King of Mirkwood. The crown in my hands hangs heavy. I do not sleep much, these days.

The peace in my stronghold is a watchful one.

I have given the blood and lives of my subjects to keep some semblance of safety in our home, the blood and lives I am sworn to protect to my dying breath. My advisors forbid me to take up arms in defense of our home; they say I am too valuable alive to risk in battle. My father took up arms, they say, and now he resides in the Halls of Mandos, and does not even have use of quill and parchment to defend our home.

But, oh, every time one of my warriors returns injured, or does not return at all, my hand itches for the pommel of my sword, if I could only lay down my life to ensure that every patrol returns whole. To ensure that any patrol returns whole.

Every time Legolas returns injured, I wish to slay every one of the stinking orc-beasts and spider-spawn that infect our home with my bare hands. I wager that this time, it is more than an Orc arrow or spider venom that will ail my son when he returns.

The thought almost makes me wish that Gollum had found a way to bring the foul evil of the One Ring to Greenwood. At least, then, I could protect my people with more than sword and shield and precious Elven lives.

I have heard tell that in the use of the Elven-rings to defend their realms, the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond have sacrificed themselves. I have seen the way they look at me in Council, with pity and envy in equal amounts, mingled so closely together it is almost impossible to untangle.

What I would give for the chance to sacrifice myself for my kingdom, to take back every drop of blood soaked into forest floor. Even should the Quest succeed, Greenwood cannot return to its former glory – it sits too heavily in the shadow of death.

I try very hard not to resent the Elven-ring bearers, who have the luxury of sitting regally in their homes, overlooking peaceful valleys and forests as their feäs may peacefully fade. I am afraid I am not very successful.

My robe sweeps across the floor, stirring up the thin layer of dust that now lies on his floor. Legolas has never had patience for dirt and grime in his rooms, for all that he will happily roll about in the leaf litter with his trees.

Tomorrow night, I shall have to sweep. Legolas will be dismayed if his quarters have fallen into disrepair when he returns.

Now, I smooth out a crease upon his bed, before settling myself lightly on his cover. When he was but a babe, I sat with him as he slept, and marveled at the unlined space between his brows.

The night before he set out to Rivendell, I sat with him again. I thought I would be able to sit with him again in another fortnight, and although our home is anything but safe, I thought I would feel content knowing that he was within an arm’s reach. Not safe, perhaps, but something close.

I was wrong.

Perhaps if I had known he would not return from Rivendell with the rest of the company, I would have woken him. Perhaps I would have held him, felt the beat of his heart against my own. Perhaps I would have done more than watch the play of the night’s breeze in his hair, and quelled the urge to undo the warriors’ braids in his hair.

I bow my head, blocking Legolas’ room from my eyes. No good can come from dwelling on the past.

A breath of air slips past my lips, loud in the quiet of my son’s empty room.

The crown is heavier now than it was a mere minute ago. There is a stiffness between my shoulders as I stand again.

Eärendil’s light shines softly across the hall as I make my way to my own quarters. I take what little comfort I can in wondering whether Legolas is looking to that light as well. Outside, the leaves shuffle tiredly around the wind.

The forest is weary, as am I.

I close my eyes. No rest will come to me tonight.


End file.
